


My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun

by itsallaboutzarry



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Bird and whale music, Bottom Harry, Dildo bong, Enemies to Lovers, Gonging, Harry Styles Does Yoga, M/M, Massages, Medicinal Drug Use, Yelling, a lot of yelling, okay not that much yelling, pink shorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-26 06:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14396364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsallaboutzarry/pseuds/itsallaboutzarry
Summary: “Zayn,” Louis says around an inhale, “The guy is parading around his backyard like a peacock in very tight pink shorts and it’s for nobody’s benefit but yours.”“That’s just…”“Ask him out.”“No.”“Fine, then I’ll do it in your name.”“You wouldn’t.”Louis smirks and puffs out the smoke, licking over his lips. “Wanna bet?”





	My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zaynsuniverse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaynsuniverse/gifts).



> zaynsuniverse, I hope this is at least a little bit of what you wanted from the neighbors prompt. It was so much fun to write, but maybe it got away from me a little? Maybe.  
> For some reason, the title is from Shakespeare.  
> Thank you a million to Amanda for reading this and giving me ideas on what to actually write. As always, you’re amazing. As are the mods organizing this whole shindig. Amazing.  
> Let’s all not think about the logistics of growing weed in your backyard. This is set in California in my mind, but I don’t think that matters much in the end. So let’s just… not.  
> The entire fic is inspired by the [dildo bong](https://ozsmoke.com.au/images/product/PMG-Kolt-Silicone-bong-pink-purple.jpg). And the weed is all done in a very casual or entirely medicinal sense.

 

It’s seven in the morning. Zayn doesn’t even have an alarm clock anymore, not so much as a clock on his night stand, because every single morning, accurate as church bells, though much more annoying, much closer and so much,  _ much _ louder, the gonging starts.

The first time, almost three months ago, Zayn thought he was having a heart attack. He doesn’t know why he connected one with the other, but he did. It took him ten minutes that time, to realize that his heart was fine if beating a little faster and pumping adrenaline to his brain at an unsettling pace for so early in the morning, and that the noise,  _ god the noise, _ was coming from just outside his window. He almost ripped the curtains trying to open it in a haste, where now he doesn’t even bother getting up.

There’s going to be seven of them, ringing out and echoing around the entire street, but almost congregating right inside Zayn’s room, because that’s what the gong is facing. Seven bangs, one for each chakra, though  _ apparently _ , there are one hundred and fourteen in the body. Zayn didn’t know that, he didn’t know anything about chakras and he wishes, more than he’s ever wished for anything in his life, that he still didn’t. He’d probably kill someone if there’d be one hundred and fourteen bangs. 

Zayn stays lying in bed, and only briefly contemplates throwing a pillow over his head - not that it does anything to muffle the sound - rolls over on his front, groans, because he has the right to, and then as the last one rings out, falls back asleep. It doesn’t matter either way, because right on the dot at eight o’clock, and then nine and ten and all until noon, there’ll be seven bangs on the gong, opening up chakras and waking Zayn up. He could go to the end of his backyard, right up to the picket fence that comes up to his knees and yell about early mornings and stupid neighbors, he could threaten to break the damn gong and even call the police - in nothing but his Captain America boxers - but all he would get as a reaction would be a, “Why don’t we take a deep breath, hm? Calm ourselves down?” and a cocked hip in hot pink shorts to stare at a but stupidly. It’s happened before.

Maybe more than anything, Zayn wishes Harry Styles had never moved in next door. Maybe that’s something he dreams about as he falls back asleep every morning, every hour on the hour, from seven till noon. Maybe it’s Zayn’s favorite dream.

///

It’s usually the eleven o’clock gonging that finally gets Zayn out of bed. More than being well rested or ready to start the day, it just ends being more tiring, the waking up and the falling back to sleep so many times. The eleven o’clock one is when Zayn gives up.

So he drags his feet to the bathroom and starts his shower right as the last gong rings out. It echoes around the tiled wall, vibrates, practically shakes inside his chest. He’ll never admit that it feels grounding or that he’s googled chakras one too many times late at night, especially when he can hear Harry leading another one of his ‘yoga under the stars’ classes. 

He gets the coffee pot going, grinding a decent sized bud as it sputters. When he finally gets to his back yard to sit down at the plastic and only a little broken chair in the middle of it - Zayn definitely didn’t move the furniture around so he has a clear view of Harry’s mat, he just wanted a bit of a change - with a cup of coffee in his hand and a joint tucked behind his ear, it’s to the view of Harry bent over in half, hugging his ankles and his head resting against his straight knees. It’s a lot to take in before his first sip.

When Zayn lights up his joint and takes a puff, lets it trails in the air above him, he sees Harry plant his hands down on the purple mat, flat with his knees still straight. It’s been three months of seeing Harry do this, but it hasn’t lessened the painful twinge Zayn feels in his own legs at the sight. It’s ridiculous that this is what Zayn sees every morning,  _ every single morning _ , because both him and Harry like their routines, apparently, and he’s still no where used to it. Taking a sip of his coffee, he can see how Harry takes a deep breath before he kicks his legs out and up, and suddenly he’s in a handstand and his legs are pointing straight up into the air. He’s like a straight line, straighter than Zayn’s morning joint, that’s for sure, Harry’s toes even pointed into tips. 

Zayn’s all about home-grown and eco-friendly and reusable plastic, but less of it is centered on feeling out your body, or opening up his heart towards the sun. He doesn’t know how he’d go around planting his pelvis into the ground like roots, which is just one of the things Harry says at his classes, like, “That’s right, let your lizard crawl up your spine.” Zayn’s pretty sure Harry doesn’t have lizards.

Before he can take another puff to make the entire morning a bit more pleasant and buzzed around the edges, Harry’s bending his legs and touching the soles of his feet together, and then that invites a whole new set of images to Zayn’s unfocused mind. Just like it was three months ago, it’s overwhelming today too.

“Opening up those chakras again, Styles?” Zayn says as smoke puffs out of his mouth, but Harry doesn’t even twitch. He never does.

“Being annoying as always, Malik?” Harry says with his eyes still closed. Zayn would definitely collapse right on his face if he’d try to move his legs like that in a handstand. He can’t even do a handstand without a wall to support him. He’d know, after trying it, thinking it can’t be that hard if Harry’s doing it outside, on the grass, while it rains. It was. It’s really fucking hard. He’s got a chipped coffee table and a bruised ego to prove it. “Good morning to you too, by the way.”

“When are you moving your classes inside, anyway?”

“I’m not.” Harry falls back down on his feet with an elegant  _ thump _ . With his eyes still closed, he hugs his ankles again. “Doing a winter wonderland class in December. I’m calling it Yoga Clause. I’d invite you to come by, but it’s all filled up, sorry.”

“No, no.” That were supposed to be Zayn’s favorite time of the year - the months Harry kept his stupid gong inside. At least then, there was a chance Zayn could sleep through it. “You can’t just - Why?”

Harry straightens up, shrugging as he finally looks at Zayn. “Why not?”

“Because I can’t  _ sleep _ .”

“It’ll start at 8, don’t worry.”

“ _ 8?  _ As in 8  _ in the morning _ ?” Zayn’s on his feet too now. He’s been thankful for the fence being there, even small as it is, or else he’d be jumping on Harry and not letting go until the gong was good and gone. He’s dreamed about setting it on fire before. 

“Of course 8 in the morning,” Harry puts his hands on his hips, cocks his hip out, “Why? Afraid you won’t get your beauty sleep?”

“I work late, Harry, you know that.”

Zayn doesn’t miss the glance Harry gives the plants on Zayn’s left and right side, now reaching just his hip. Harry hasn’t made any comments about them, not besides asking if Zayn could ease up on the watering system because his yard was getting drenched in the process and some clients had complained. Having checkmated him, Harry refused to get rid of the gong, so, the plants were getting water pretty much twenty-four seven. 

“Yeah, well. I work early.” Harry shrugs again. “And I don’t complain about,” he waves his hand around Zayn’s yard, “this, even if I’ve had to answer some awkward questions about the… the  _ weed _ ,” he whispers, “growing next door.”

Zayn, as always, smirks. “If any of your like, yogis, are interested, I could give you my business cards.”

“What? No,” Harry sputters. “Of course they’re not interested.”

“Do you have something against medical marihuana, Styles? Don’t like people finding relief for their pain?”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

Harry hasn’t actually said anything and knowing him, he probably would rather smoke something natural than take a pill for a headache, but still. Even though it’s annoying and Zayn will never, ever relent - he does like his routines - he doesn’t really mind having the same argument with Harry over his coffee in the morning. It’s as soothing as the weed is.

“Actually,” Harry starts and his whole demeanor changes. He bites his lip, blinks slowly, takes a step closer to the fence, to Zayn, and asks all syrupy, “Is Louis coming around today?”

“Why?” Zayn narrows his eyes. 

“I have to ask him something.”

“What?” Zayn squares his shoulder up. He knows it’s irrational, but it doesn’t mean he likes Louis being all friendly with Harry. It’s like his best friend being buds with his nemesis. Or something less villain-like, but still. It doesn’t sit well with Zayn. It doesn’t even matter that Lou’s been in a relationship for five years. That doesn’t matter one bit.

“Just tell him to come over, please.” Harry says, ever so polite, and turns around to leave. As Zayn stays standing there, holding his coffee and his now half smoked and scorced joint between his fingers, Harry grins over his shoulder, “I have to get ready for my next class.” He even bangs on the gong as he passes it.

One of these days, the embarrassing crush he has on Harry will finally morph into full fledged hate, he swears. Harry just needs to stop wearing those pink shorts first.

///

Zayn doesn’t actually say anything when Louis comes over that afternoon, but Harry’s not home as it is, because it’s Thursday and he has hot pilates on Thursday. Zayn had to  _ Google _ that too, and well. He didn’t sleep much that night. Either way, Louis comes over and Zayn insists that they can definitely smoke inside, even if he hates how it all lingers right below the ceiling, every cigarette that’s put out in the mason jar.

It’s when the sun goes down and Louis goes up to the window to look at the backyard and the product he’s getting next week to sell at his shop that Zayn remembers why his couch is going to smell like an ashtray for months. “Hey, is Harry home?”

“Huh?” Zayn pretends he doesn’t hear, like Louis isn’t just going to ask again.

“Harry? Is he home?”

“How am I supposed to know that?” Which is besides the point that Zayn knows he isn’t. “I’m not his watchdog.”

“Um…”

“I don’t care where he is. He can do whatever he wants to without telling me.” It also doesn’t matter that Harry, for some reason that Zayn may or may not like, is actually telling Zayn where he’s going and who he’s meeting every time he goes anywhere. He’ll walk past Zayn sitting in the yard and casually say, “Going to meet Niall for drinks,” with a wave. On Thursdays it’s hot pilates with his pilates friends, then his favorite bakery for a slice of cheesecake that Zayn  _ has to  _ try one day, and then around eight-ish, he’s going over to Niall’s to watch a movie. Between yelling at Zayn about how the plants on his side of the garden have started drooping over on his side, Harry asked for a movie recommendation. Zayn yelled back, ‘ _ Die Hard _ .’ He wasn’t even joking.

“Wow, can you chill? It was just a question.”

“Yeah well, it was the way you said it,” Zayn huffs and burrows deeper into the couch. 

Louis steps away from the windows and smiles crookedly. “And what way was that?”

“I don’t know.” Him and Louis were supposed to have a chill night in, watch a movie, go over the numbers, deal with supplies. They’ve done none of that, not if smoking the supplies doesn’t count. “I don’t know, like, you never know where Nick is.”

Raising an eyebrow and getting that glint in his eye, Louis collapses into the armchair opposite Zayn. “He’s my boyfriend. Of course I don’t care where he is all the time.”

Zayn raises his eyebrow right back at him.

“What? I don’t. He’s already dating me, I’m past the stalking stage of our relationship.”

“Mhm.” Maybe they need to smoke a bit more, get his house well and stuffy. 

“You and Harry, though, are not dating,” Louis sounds important, too important for sitting on his heels like that, because he doesn’t want to seem smaller than Zayn. 

“No, we’re not.” Zayn isn’t sure why he’s indulging him.

“So, it would  be acceptable if you, you know, stalked him a little.”

“But I’m not doing that.”

“Yes, but it would be okay if you did.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Lou-”

“Look.” It’s suddenly worse when Louis pulls his legs from under himself and puts his elbows on his knees. By the looks of it, he’s going to try to reason with Zayn and coming from Louis, that’s never a good sign. “I  _ know _ , alright? I know you like Harry, underneath all that petty gonging business. No, shut up,” he cuts him off with a look. “I’ve been listening to you moan about him for three months with fucking hearts in your eyes and, besides,  _ someone _ has told me that Harold might like you right back.”

It’s probably not what’s happening, but it feels like Louis’ words lodge in his throat and make him choke on his next breath. “What?”

“Like it isn’t obvious.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your flirting is a bit fucked up, and that’s coming from me. You need to, I don’t know, make a gesture.”

“ _ What _ ?” Zayn will keep repeating himself until Louis hopefully leaves his house.

But rolling his eyes like the prick that he is, Louis just settles further into his seat. “Ask him out or something. Do something else than yell at the poor guy, for fuck’s sake.” 

“What are you-”

“I’m going to give you a minute to process, okay?” Louis goes all soft then, and considerate and almost quiet. He reaches over for the grinder, the rizlas and the filters and gets to rolling while Zayn just sort of sits there and watches Louis’ fingers move. All he can think about is,  _ Harry likes me? He likes me back? _

When Louis’ licking at the side of the rolled joint and tearing off the excess rizla, Zayn clears his throat and says, as clearly as he can, “Harry doesn’t like me.” And then, because maybe the world won’t end, Zayn says, “Back, he doesn’t like me back.”

With the kind of look Louis gives him, he’s lucky Zayn doesn’t throw him out. “I mean, I knew you were an idiot, but I didn’t think you’d be this stupid.”

“Can we stop insulting me for one second?”

“Zayn,” Louis says around an inhale, “The guy is parading around his backyard like a peacock and it’s for nobody’s benefit but yours.”

“That’s just…”

“Ask him out.”

“No.”

“Fine, then I’ll do it in your name.”

“You wouldn’t.” 

Louis smirks and puffs out the smoke, licking over his lips. “Wanna bet?”

///

“How was hot pilates?”

Zayn’s in his usual attire of cut off sweats and a tank top, holding his coffee close to his chest, except he’s barefoot, because for once, the grass isn’t drenched. Zayn turned off the watering system overnight. He hopes Harry notices.

If he does, he doesn’t show it. Harry turns his head as best as he can in the pose that he’s in, crouched on the mat and his elbows holding all of his weight on his knees so his feet are hovering just above the ground. Zayn’s seen this one in one of those online yoga tutorials he may have watched once. Or twice. “What?”

“The hot pilates thing? Yesterday?” Zayn feels so, so stupid asking. He’s never asked before and it wasn’t that he didn’t want to know or care, because in his heart of hearts, he thinks he did, he’s pretty sure he does. It just feels ridiculous asking. Usually, one of them is yelling at this point. “Had fun?”

“Um,” Harry unfurles himself and looks a bit sideways at Zayn. God, those stupid pink shorts. “Yes, actually. I did. Thanks? For asking.”

“Yeah, um.” Zayn doesn’t know what to do next. He can’t just, come out and ask Harry out. That would be even more ridiculous. Harry doesn’t even like him back.

“Have you been thinking of going?” Harry asks carefully, taking a few steps towards Zayn, much in the same way Zayn thinks he would a lion. 

“To hot pilates? No, I don’t think it’s for me.”

“Oh.” Harry stops a few feet away from the fence. Zayn doesn’t know what to do with his expression. “I noticed that you didn’t water your… things, last night.”

Zayn bites his lip around a smile. “You can call it weed.”

“Yeah. I just, wanted to say thank you.” Harry swings both of his hands behind his back and if Zayn isn’t hallucinating, he even bows down a little. It’s a very yoga-thing for him to do.

“It was just for tonight, though, I can’t just not water them.”

When Harry’s expression changes this time, Zayn knows exactly what it means. “Can’t you not do it in the mornings?”

The irony isn’t lost on Zayn. “If I could…”

He watches as Zayn takes a deep breath that apparently does nothing to calm him down.“People complain, my  _ clients _ complain. All the mats are wet and they can’t even walk barefoot without their feet being all muddy,” Harry says, with his voice growing steadily louder and higher. It’s a screech at the end. “My entire yard is drenched in your weed water!”

“Stop calling it that.”

“That’s what it is!” Harry huffs as his hands clench into fists. It’s good to know that their routine won’t be broken anytime soon. 

Zayn takes a sip of his coffee and Harry, with a hand on his chest, taking a deep breath, calmly says, “Please. Stop overwatering your plants, Zayn.” He takes a step forward and narrows his eyes. “There, I asked you nicely.”

Zayn can’t help but laugh though. He’s laughing as he turns around and still as he’s walking up the steps to his porch. When he’s practically inside the house, he yells back, “Doesn’t mean I have to do it!”

It makes feel like an asshole, because he is one. He would if he could, but then the weed would die off and so would Zayn, because Louis would kill him. But then Zayn might actually like that option if it meant he could also stop yelling at Harry about gonging or watering systems.

///

“Zayn. Zayn!”

“What?” Zayn groans. He’s trying to sleep, though he recognizes his two rookie mistakes. The first one was calling Louis to come over at seven in the morning, because a tired, cranky and slightly hyperactive Louis doesn’t mean sleep time for Zayn. His second and probably bigger mistake, is taking up the lounger in the yard instead of his bed, which is surrounded by walls and a door Zayn can lock. But now that he’s outside, trying to bask underneath a sun that’s barely even risen but will soon be all warm on his skin, Zayn doesn’t want to move.

Harry whisper shouts, “Louis is being creepy.” Zayn can hear the people from the seven o’clock class gathering their things and leaving. Their feet make perfect squelching sounds as they walk on the grass.

“I’m not.” 

“He’s staring at my yoga class.” 

Louis gasps. “I was  _ not _ .” He’s properly offended.

“He was ogling,” Harry almost sings now that everyone’s left.

Why they decided he should be a part of this conversation is beyond Zayn. He still says, “Louis, stop being a creeper,” because he’d rather get on Harry’s good side than bad. He’s been trying to figure out how to turn yelling at each other into casual flirting. Still no such luck.

“I was  _ not _ ogling,” Louis insists, “I was  _ watering _ .” 

“He was ogling.” 

Zayn opens an eye and gives Louis a look. “Do I need to call Nick?” 

“ _ I was not ogling. _ ” The water from the hose is getting everywhere with how his trashing his hands around. “It’s not my fault he’s got twenty people bending over in my face at ass o’clock in the morning. It’s a lot to take it on an empty stomach.” 

“I told you, I’m not your personal chef.” Zayn sighs. He doesn’t cook for himself in the mornings, he sure as hell isn’t going to for Louis, who can eat his cereal at home.

Setting himself for absolute failure, Harry offers, “I can make you an avocado toastie if you want?” He sounds almost excited now. Zayn doesn not open his eyes again to see for himself.

“Zayn? Your neighbor is trying to poison me.” 

“Styles, stop trying to poison my friends,” he grumbles, throwing his hand over his eyes. Maybe it’ll be enough for them to think he’s not there anymore. Maybe they’ll think he’s asleep.

Back to being offended and only just a little whiny, Harry says, “I offered him breakfast.”

“No thank you,” Louis says loudly and then by the sounds of it, Harry walks off and Lou goes back to water the plants. At least everything is growing right on schedule.

///

It’s right after noon that Zayn hears from Harry again. He’s just come out to the porch to smoke a cigarette before he and Louis go off to open their shop, and it’s almost like Harry has a sixth sense for when Zayn will be outside, all unbeknownst of the pouncing Harry usually has in mind.

“Zayn?” Harry calls over the fence. His tone alone sends an expectant shiver down his pine. “I’m being serious right now,” like he ever isn’t, “That tree of yours is still in the way of the sun.”

Harry means the willow tree. The willow tree that is probably more than fifty years old and droops down onto Harry’s yard. A little. Just a branch or three. Zayn’s been wondering what Harry is going to do in the spring, when it blooms and blossoms and all the little droplets of pollan end up on Harry’s yard, because there is no way in hell that Zayn is cutting that willow down. It’s older than both of them together. “I need my vitamin D, Malik. Please.”

“I’ll give you vitamin D,” Zayn grumbles what should be quietly enough for Harry not to hear him, but by the way his eyes widen and he goes all pink, Harry probably doesn’t miss it.

“You’ll what?”

“I said tough fucking luck, Styles. I’m not cutting the tree.”

The whole ‘ask Harry out, he likes you too, don’t be an idiot, Zayn’ is going as well as it’s to be expected. He’s tired of going against everything Harry says, but if only Harry wouldn’t keep asking to kill all of his plants. At least Louis hasn’t butted in again. Which is of course true for only the next five minutes, because then Harry’s calling Louis’ name and Louis is huffing and rolling his eyes in a ‘this kid, I swear’ way, but he’s walking out to the yard and going right up to the fence anyway. Zayn has no friends. He’s officially friendless.

He’s left standing in his kitchen, watching them interact. They’re talking and being all friendly-like, and at one point, Harry even laughs. His nose scrunches and his shoulders shake, Zayn’s pretty sure he can hear the sound of it too. Zayn doesn’t mean to be jealous, but he’s never made Harry laugh like that and within the first minute of talking, Louis has him in stitches.

It’s safe to say that for the rest of the day, Zayn is a pissy clusterfuck of confused emotions. He knows he’s being stupid and that there’s no rational reason to ignore Louis like he’s doing, but he can’t convince himself to do anything but. When Nick shows up at their shop around two in the morning, Zayn talks to him, asks him about his music and the dogs. He gets a rubber bong thrown at the back of his head for it.

“Stop being a complete idiot. Take that home with you,” Louis juts his chin towards the bong. It’s a bright mix of blue and pink rubber. They only ordered it for its striking similarities to a dildo.

“What? Why?”

“Do as I say. Or I’ll send Pig on you.”

“Pig loves me,” Zayn challenges, because she does. She always tries to climb up into his lap.

“She loves me more,” Louis counters and Nick nods, though at least it looks resigned.

“She does. Loves him more than me.”

“Fine.” Zayn looks at the bong again. “Why though?” 

“Don’t ask questions you’re not ready to have answered, Zayn. Now, I’ve put together a bag.”

///

Zayn ends up taking home more than just the dildo bong. It’s only because Louis looks incredibly serious about the whole thing that Zayn doesn’t take a peek inside the paper bag until he’s home, already showered and splayed out on the couch.

Louis just said to take it home and shut up, not what Zayn was supposed to do with the bag and what’s inside, so he only feels a little weird, tipping it closer to himself to see what Louis packed.

There’s the bright dildo bong that Zayn snorts at, because really. A rubber, practically neon bong. They should probably try to stay sober at work more often - not that it’s going to happen. There are a couple of samples stuffed into clear bottles, all three of Zayn’s strains labelled as just numbers. He’s offended Louis didn’t write  _ hot pink _ ,  _ Hulk  _ or  _ flying chakra _ , but his memory sucks when he’s high, so it only lasts a minute. At least there’s a  _ Z _ at the top of each one. Right at the bottom, there’s some rolling paper and filters, and a clear glass pipe. It’s a beginners bag if Zayn’s ever seen one.

He shrugs, tips it right side up again and forgets about it as soon as he sets it against the side of the couch. Zayn goes to bed just a few minutes past three in the morning. He smokes a cigarette while eyeing the gong the whole time, cleans his teeth and pulls the curtains in his bedroom closed before burrowing deep beneath his pillow. He can’t  _ wait _ to wake up in four hours. And then again in five, and then six. Zayn really hates Harry’s gong.

///

It’s not the gong in the end, it’s the  _ bird music _ that wakes him up in the morning. Zayn knows it’s not actual real life birds singing in front of his window, because for one, he doesn’t live in a fairytale and even if he did, Snow White wouldn’t be the one he’d want to wake up in. And two, it’s not the first time that it’s happened. It’s probably one of the most Harry-thing that Harry does. Instead of music with instruments and lyrics and  _ music _ , he blasts birds over the speakers at his classes. Why Zayn hasn’t moved out yet, he really doesn’t know.

It’s a wonder though, because the birds mean he’s slept right through at least the first gongs, which has only happened a handful of times - once, it’s happened once before - so he has anywhere between an hour and a minute left to sleep without further interruption.

Zayn will never, ever, not in a million years, not even over his dead body, admit that the bird music makes him fall back asleep faster.

///

It’s two days later that Zayn finds Harry sitting cross-legged in the middle of his yard. He’s on his purple mat, barefoot and topless, wearing only a pair of white,  _ god, white,  _ shorts. No one can blame Zayn for sitting down in his only a little broken plastic chair with his coffee and his joint, quietly as he can, and letting Harry have his morning session of deep breaths in the sun. It’s probably the only time Zayn won’t immediately jump into, “Styles, why are you the way you are?” that he usually does.

It’s nice, peaceful. Harry breathes in deep and Zayn, consciously or not, it’s no one’s business but his own, matches it with his own chest.

When he gets into the rhythm of it, he slips the roach into the ashtray and closes his eyes too, wishing he’d think of taking off his t-shirt before he got all zen and yoga-like. Harry-like. 

He doesn’t know how long they sit there, opposite each other, just breathing while getting that precious vitamin D, or whatever it is, but it’s with a bleary blink that Zayn sees that sometime between then and now, Harry’s left.

///

Sundays are Zayn’s days off. Sundays are also Harry’s mornings off thank god, which means sleeping-in till after noon and, most time, no yelling over fences about water or trees or gongs. Some Sundays, Harry will drag the gong inside so Zayn doesn’t even have to look at it. Zayn’ll return the favor by keeping the water to a minimum. He doesn’t know why that’s exclusive so Sundays.

It’s also why he doesn’t understand why someone is ringing his doorbell at three in the afternoon when he’s just barely closed his eyes for his afternoon nap. He’s  _ this close _ to calling the police. He doesn’t know what he’d say, but he’d think of something. Messing up people’s sleep schedules should be a serious crime.

“Stop,” he shouts before he’s even off his lounger. He’s only a little sweaty from lying in the sun. Zayn wanted to bask though and now he’s being rudely interrupted. “Stop, please,  _ stop _ .”

Throwing the door open and frowning before he even sees who it is, he says another, “Stop.”

“Hi.”

Zayn should be surprised. He’s not, but he’s sure he should be. “Styles?”

“Hi,” Harry says again, grinning all wide and everything, but biting his lip and wringing his hands together. It’s awfully endearing for also being incredibly annoying. 

“What is it?” Zayn leans against the door and sighs, letting his eyes close for another second, trying to wake himself up, because something tells him he’s going to have to be fully awake for this. Whatever this is.

“Um, so I called Louis just now,” Harry says and points a thumb over his shoulder. “And he said you have a package for me?”

Zayn’s definitely not awake enough though, because he’s watching Harry’s lips move as he talks, but he can’t make any sense of the sounds coming out of his mouth. It’s not the first time that Zayn’s noticed Harry’s got a pretty mouth. Pink lips. It’s hard not to notice with the way he talks.

“What?”

“I, um,” Harry bites his lip. Zayn’s not entirely sure, but he thinks Harry’s blushing. “I ordered something. From the shop? Your shop. And he said he gave you my, um, package?”

It takes another minute for Zayn focus on the ‘package’ and ‘Louis’ and ‘ordered from your shop’ for him to straighten up like a sharp current runs through him. “You mean the bong?”

Harry is worrying his lip and it’s going to get all red and shiny if he doesn’t stop this very second. “Is it just the bong? He said-”

“No, there’s a pipe and some samples too. That’s -  _ You _ ordered that?”

Harry nods.

“Okay,” Zayn says, even though he doesn’t think he is. He’s trying his hardest not to feel offended that Harry didn’t come to him for this. In all honesty, if Harry wanted some weed, he could’ve just reached over the fence and plucked some off straight from the plants. Zayn wouldn’t have even minded. But then again, Zayn can’t bring himself to be that surprised that Harry didn’t do exactly that. “I’ll get it for you.”

Zayn tries not to, but he obviously rushes to get the bag where it’s still propped up against the side of his couch. It’s when he’s handing it over that he remembers what exactly is in the bag to begin with. Zayn’s weed and a dildo bong.  _ Of course  _ it has to be Harry who picked out the dildo bong. Zayn will never know peace again.

“Here. It’s all - It’s all in there.”

Harry’s grin is a bit lopsided when he says, “Thanks,” and it takes him an extraordinarily long time to walk back over to his house, but through every second that drags by, Zayn stands there and thinks of Harry’s pink lips on that stupid pink bong.

Groaning all the way to the bathroom, he takes a cold shower. It’s embarrassing, but no one finds out, so at least Zayn has that going for him.

///

When he hears a faint, “Zayn?” coming through the backyard, Zayn’s first reaction is to melt down into the couch and hope Harry doesn’t notice he’s home. It would be easier if he didn’t have the lights on or the TV on, or it Harry didn’t see him smoking on his porch ten minutes ago in the clothes they both know Zayn wears for lying on his couch at this point. He’s not one to leave the house in the short sweatpants he cut off in half by himself.

He hides until he hears another, “Zayn?” and really, at least Zayn can admit to himself that if it were anyone but Harry interrupting his  _ Criminal Minds _ time, he’d tell them to fuck off. That’s a step, right? A step to doom maybe, but a step that must count anyway.

“Hey.” It’s not the usual ‘what do you want’ Zayn usually approaches Harry with and the shock of it missing is painfully clear on Harry’s face. It’s just… Zayn really doesn’t enjoy yelling at Harry all that much it turns out. “What’s up?”

They both just stand there, Harry right up against the fence and Zayn on his porch, and look at each other, but Zayn suspects it’s only because there’s nowhere else to look, and rather than at his feet or the moon, he’d stare at Harry given the choice.

“I need help?” Harry’s voice goes up like it’s a question. “I don’t, um - I tried rolling and it didn’t -” He takes a breath. “I don’t know how the bong works?”

This time, Zayn can see him blush all the way across the yard.

“You don’t know how the bong works,” he says flatly, because, well. Of course Harry doesn’t know how it works. That makes sense. Everything Harry’s ever done has been to torture Zayn, so this makes absolute perfect sense. He’d rather just have him banging on that gong all throughout the night, than seeing Harry try to wrap his lips around the step because he doesn’t know you have to tuck them in. Rather than that, Zayn would want to do anything, absolutely anything in the whole world, except for how he really wouldn’t, actually. 

Instead of suggesting all that that, because Harry’s wringing his hands again, Zayn says, “Bring it over, I’ll show you.”

At least it’s an improvement on the yelling aspect of things.

///

“So.”

Harry puts his bong on the coffee table, next to the samples Louis gave him and the pipe and the rolling papers. It’s not like Zayn has his own favorites right there on the coffee table as well, and the kitchen counter and next to his bed for any headache that tries to sneak up on him during the night, but he doesn’t mention it. Harry actually looks nervous. And a bit out of place too, sitting on the edge of Zayn’s couch, like it’s either incredibly dirty - which it isn’t, it’s not - or like he’s ready to bolt back to his house and lock his windows and doors. Zayn wouldn’t even follow him, but he doesn’t mention that either.

“So,” Zayn repeats, this time less choked up. “You don’t know how to use the bong.”

“I’ve never -” Harry starts with his eyes wide and everything again, so Zayn cuts him off with a quick, “It’s fine.” He has this urge to pat his knee, but he keeps his hands to himself. “I’ll show you and, yeah. I’ll show you.”

“Thank you,” Harry offers him a smile too and it’s just a bit too much, now that Zayn’s crush has morphed into an actual thing. It was easier to just appreciate Harry’s bending-over abilities from over the fence than,  _ this. _ This, Zayn doesn’t know what to do with.

So he goes for the sample marked with a one on the side, because it’s appropriate, what with the  _ pink shorts _ and all, and it gives him something to do with his hands. As he goes to fill the bong with some water, Harry makes himself more comfortable on the couch, which it turns out, is both a good a bad thing.

Harry should be comfortable before he gets all high and floaty, but it means that the part of his thighs that the white shorts don’t cover,  _ which is all of his thighs _ , are right there. Like, seriously right  _ there _ .

“Okay, so,” Zayn says as lamely as ever. “You fill it up with water, like up to here,” he points at an, honestly, completely random height on the stem, “And that’s basically the hardest bit.” He tries smiling a little, and it works as well as an uncomfortable, awkward smile does - it makes Harry grin stupidly wide.

“Okay, so, first step is water.” He’s nodding, throwing hair right in front of his eyes.

“Right. Second is packing this bit. You can even like, add some tobacco with essential oils or something.” Zayn isn’t trying to impress Harry with knowledge he hopes Harry will actually be impressed by. He isn’t.

“Oh, that’s great, I should try that.”

In between opening up the sample and stuffing a bit into the socket, Zayn is preoccupied glancing over at Harry’s twisted together fingers.

“How come you’re - I mean.” Trying to make Harry comfortable is not Zayn’s fortee. He tries again with, “How come you got a bong?” because there’s something telling him that if he gets Harry talking, he’ll at least relax a little.

“Oh,” Harry perks up. “I was talking to Niall, about my asthma and stuff, and he said I should try smoking, but like, with a bong. So I though, hey, since you’re my neighbor…” Harry trails off.

Zayn tries not to, but he still asks, “So since I’m your neighbor, you went to Louis instead?” because he feels weird about it. Zayn’s pretty sure he gets to feel weird about it.

“I though you’d yell at me.” Harry bites his lip and Zayn feels like a dickhead. “So. Louis.”

Zayn stops packing the bowl. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Harry says and pats Zayn’s knee. “I think we’re doing it as a bit of therapy. I know I am.” When Zayn raises his eyebrow, because he wants to apologize over and over again, but that wouldn’t make sense right now, Harry shrugs. “The yelling and everything. It’s like releasing pent up energy, so it’s good. I don’t mind it,” he shrugs again. “Kind of like it, actually.”

Zayn watches Harry bite his lip again, but it sends a new kind of current down his spine. It’s enough to get him talking again. “You don’t need to put a lot into the socket, just enough to cover the bottom and then that’s it,” he presents the bong and keeps his eyes on it. It still looks ridiculous. “Ready to light up.”

“Great.”

“Yeah.”

“So.”

“So?”

“How do you ‘light up’?” Harry goes as far as to gesticulate the quotes and it shouldn’t, but it sends Zayn into the kind of laugh that makes his stomach hurt. It’s worth it though, because Harry’s eyes are shining like he’s almost proud for making Zayn laugh. It lasts about as long as it takes Zayn to realize that now he’ll not only get to think about Harry taking a hit from the stupid dildo bong, but he’ll get to watch it too. That makes him choke on his spit, but it’s masked by all the laughing, so Harry doesn’t notice.

“Right. I don’t know why Lou didn’t give you an instructional pamphlet or something,” Because they had those on the counter in the shop, he remembers stalking them up into a neat pile. 

Harry clears his throat and hands Zayn the lighter from the coffee table. “He said if I had any questions that I should just ask you.”

It makes perfect sense, but Zayn still asks, “He did?”

Harry shrugs and ducks his head. He blushes in the prettiest pink. “Or I said I’d ask you if I had any questions.”

“Do you?” Zayn feels brave, holding Harry’s eye like this. A bit brasen, like he doesn’t care anymore and they’re not even floaty yet. “Have any other questions?” It’s as close to saying ‘I like you, do you like me back?’ as he can manage right now, but at least it’s something.

Harry shakes his head, but he bumps his fingers against Zayn’s thigh as he says, “Not right now,” which has to mean something, right? It does to Zayn, anyway.

“Okay, right. You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

So Zayn puts his mouth on the bong, lips tucked into the stem of it. He taps his finger against the carb to show Harry to pay attention to it. He lights up, inhales and gets the bubbling going, then moves his finger away in the last second, and inhales deep and quick before pulling away. “Yeah?” he asks around the breath he’s holding.

Harry nods.

“I don’t how it’ll be with your asthma.” Zayn lets the puff of smoke out towards the ceiling. “Maybe don’t hold it in.”

“Okay.”

Zayn doesn’t remember the last time he’s seen someone look so eager over a bong, but it makes him feel excited for it too. If it’ll actually help ease Harry’s asthma, then that’s even better.

He passes it over to Harry along with the lighter and nods for him to go on.

It’s a sight if Zayn’s ever seen one. Harry’s apprehensive about, moving the bong half way up to his face and then deciding to duck a little to meet it instead. He lights the fire before Zayn chokes on his spit again as he tucks his lips into it and gets it lit. Harry has his eyes closed until he’s pulling his finger away and then the bong and though he isn’t even high yet, Zayn feels like he’s floating already.

“Good?” he manages to ask as Harry puffs out without much finesse.

Smacking his lips together, Harry says, “Tastes funny,” and goes right back in for another hit. Not a sharer then. It’s okay though, because Zayn would rather watch Harry do it. He’s awkward about it, clumsy as he pulls off without ever lifting off his finger and saying an, “Oops,” blowing out imaginary smoke, but he gets the hang of it quickly enough. After another successful hit, he hands it back over to Zayn.

They go like that, back and forth, until Zayn can’t taste it anymore and puts it back on the coffee table.

“You ever smoke before?”

“Not like… ” Harry keeps smacking his lips together. Zayn reaches over and hands him the bottle of orange juice he remembered to bring while filing the bong with water. “Just in college a few times. I never thought it could help me breathe or anything.”

“It can.” Zayn’s watching Harry’s throat bobble as he drinks. “Or it can make it worse, but you can tell right away usually.” Some of their customers prefer the bong for that, but some don’t get bothered by rolling either. To each their own. 

“I think it’s good,” Harry says as he starts massaging his palm against his chest. It’s as good of a queue to stop looking at him as any, so Zayn drinks some of the juice too.

“What did you major in?” Zayn asks once they’re both settled into the couch, distantly watching the ending of  _ Criminal Minds _ . Zayn’s missed the entire episode but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Economics and business. You?”

“English.”

Harry chuckles. “We’re really using our degrees right now, huh?”

Zayn easily falls into a soft kind of laughter with him. “You do own a business though.”

“I do, yeah.”

It feels like a moment, a  _ moment _ type of a moment when Harry’s hand is suddenly at the side of Zayn’s thigh, his fingers rubbing at the skin just below Zayn’s DIY hemline. Zayn leans his head so he’s closer to Harry by that much, and more breathes out, “I don’t mind the bird noises,” than anything else. It can’t be accidental, the circles Harry’s making with his finger. It can’t be. Zayn really hopes it isn’t. “They’re nice, soothing in the morning.”

Harry sighs out, “I figured, since you haven’t yelled at me for it yet.”

“Smartass.”

Harry pinches his thigh, but goes back to what Zayn has decided is petting. Harry is petting his thigh and it feel really fucking nice.

“I’ll try whales tomorrow, see if you like them too.” 

They’re practically leaning their heads together, and just to cut the middle man out and make it a deliberate move for once in his life, Zayn lets his head fall gently against Harry’s.  _ Criminal Minds  _ ended sometime between then and now, so they’re watching an infomercial about some new type of magic mops, like the magic mops that were on TV a month ago weren’t magical enough.

It’s a good strain, the  _ pink shorts _ , has an easy sort of fuzz that lingers instead of pushes. It’s like floating on a cloud, but not so high up in the sky to get dizzy.

When Harry asks, “Pink shorts?” Zayn blinks and realizes he’s said at least part of that out loud.

“Um.” Zayn’s mouth is exceptionally dry all of a sudden, feels like a desert has settled on his tongue, so he downs the rest of the juice and ignores the way he can feel Harry look at him drink. “Yeah,” he says, because Zayn can be brave. Sometimes. If he’s pushed into it. “Like this one,” he pick up the bottle numbered two, “is the Hulk, because it’s a strong high. Hits hard and quick. It’s the skunk I have in my basement.”

“Basement?” Harry’s face hasn’t changed. He’s on the cusp of smiling but not quite there. It’s unnerving. 

“Downstairs?” Zayn’s confused now. He’s confused and high and Harry’s high too, so neither of them are making much sense of anything. He’ll blame it all on that if anyone asks why he says, “I like you,” in a rush, and then “Stop looking at me like that, it’s creeping me out.”

“Like what?” But Harry’s smiling now, full on grinning with his teeth showing and everything. Even his teeth are attractive. All of Harry is unfairly attractive. “Like you like me?”

Zayn huffs out and slumps back into the couch. “Shut up. I do.”

“Pink shorts?” Harry asks again, and practically tucks himself into Zayn’s side, shoulder in the arch of Zayn’s armpit. Zayn doesn’t think they’ve ever been this close before. 

He shrugs and wraps his arm around Harry. “It’s a hazy high. Kind of soft.” Zayn doesn’t know how to explain it. Usually, he prefers sampling strains to see for himself. “I like this one.”

“And it’s called  _ pink shorts _ ?” Harry rucks up the hem of the white pair he has on that Zayn can’t really look down at, because he’d probably if they were even a little see-through. 

“You just moved in when I was replanting the seedlings.” Zayn tries to make it causal and not-weird, and definitely not like he’s had a crush from day one. “All you did was say hi and unroll your mat, and you were already bent over in half.” It sounds like it sounds, because that’s exactly what Harry did - right in half.

He hums and says, “I was excited about the yard space,” in a slow slur against Zayn’s chest as he moves his head. His breath is warm in all the wrong ways that feel so incredibly right in the moment. Harry adds quietly, “I like you too.”

It’s more mumbled than his words were before and without even looking down at him, Zayn can tell his eyes will be closed. He doesn’t really know if Harry is falling asleep or already there, or if he just doesn’t want to keep blinking over and over again. He doesn’t ask either way.

Finding the remote and clicking all the way back to when he was interrupted, Zayn watches  _ Criminal Minds _ with Harry snuffling next to him.

He falls asleep sometime in between and when he wakes up, it’s with a crick in his neck - the dildo bong and Harry nowhere to be seen.

///

If Zayn’s ever  _ not _ been in the mood, it’s today. He woke up at something past eight in the morning to whale song, or rather, absolute fucking insistent high-pitched noise that could only be whale song. And the thing was, he wanted to yell. Zayn wanted to stand in the middle of his yard in nothing but his boxers with sleep still in his eyes and shout at the top of his lungs to turn the damn racket off. Maybe Harry was right, maybe it is some weird way of releasing pent-up energy. Or maybe it’s the mating  ritual neither of them realize it is. Usually Zayn would love nothing but, except last night, Harry sounded so pleased about Zayn taking a like to the bird music and he was excited for the whales. Zayn was too, last night, before he actually heard it. 

It sounded romantic in the moment:  _ I’ll wake you up with whale song _ . Clearly, Zayn’s lost his mind.

He’s found it as soon as he woke up though, pounding at his temples in the form of a fledgling headache that’s going to grow exponentially through the rest of the day. Holding back on the whole yelling thing is only making it worse.

Louis avoids him for the entire day, only saying, “I’m not coming close to you unless it’s with a stick in my hand, bro,” which is supposed to mean something, but the pounding in Zayn’s head makes it hard to decipher. He gets the message when Louis sends him to the back to do some ‘early inventory’ but with Louis’ general messiness and Zayn’s inclination to leave everything, especially organizing and cleaning, to an undefined later, it doesn’t actually hurt. Or, it doesn’t hurt their business, it doesn’t hurt to have the numbers all lined up and checked and ticked off, but the lifting of the many, many boxes, does hurt Zayn’s back at the end of the day.

The idea to barbecue a couple of steaks for dinner is just Zayn’s idiocy stockpiling into a giant load of achiness. His head hurts, his back is killing him, because he has to stand there and poke at the steaks, and Zayn just  _ knows _ that after eating, his stomach is going to be upset as well.

It’s been a balancing act of  _ when _ all throughout the day and it’s not even a little bit surprising that Harry ends up being the one to tip it over and off and really, just break the entire scale right in half as soon as he comes walking right up to the fence with his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face.

“Are you kidding me?”

Deliberating just ignoring Harry completely for both their sakes, Zayn sighs, “What now, Styles?” with his eyes closed. Zayn magines he’s going to be on a lovely deserted island in less than five minutes. He wants a mimosa.

“I can’t breathe?”

“Why?” Zayn can’t bite his tongue fast enough. “Is your breathing chakra not open enough?”

“No, because it’s clogged by all the smoke.” Harry’s still scowling at him, eyes narrow and lips tight, but there’s something different about it. Zayn’s first instinct tells him that Harry’s really angry, not just the mild thing they amplify with their voices most days, but he’s almost positive it’s not that.

So instead of making a smart comeback to see Harry sputter, Zayn says, “I’m making steaks. Want one?”

“No, I want to be able to breathe,” Harry says, but it’s with a smile this time. Zayn’s had a long, achy day with the only highlight being coming home from work in the middle of the afternoon instead of sometime after midnight for a change, and maybe seeing Harry smile makes it that much better.

“Fine, I wasn’t going to give you one anyway.”

“Zayn,” Harry’s voice goes all soft and almost too quiet to hear. They’re both being a little bit ridiculous.

“Get over here and eat your steak, Harry,” Zayn grumbles, and then adds clearly, “There isn’t even that much smoke,” because there really isn’t. It’s barely an excuse to talk about it, but Harry must’ve taken the opportunity and ran with it. Zayn’s happy for it.

Climbing over the fence and going to the table Zayn brings another plate to, they sit down next to each other and eat quietly. For once, no one yells. There’s no stomping feet, no accusatory hands on hips or stupid ‘who’s turn is it to blame?’ games. They sit and eat and Zayn listens to Harry talk about his classes until both their plates are empty.

“I didn’t like the whales this morning,” Zayn says when Harry finally makes it to the class he finished half an hour ago.

“You didn’t? I thought since you didn’t come out…”

“I didn’t…” Zayn doesn’t know how to put it.  _ I had a headache and didn’t want to deal with it _ doesn’t send the message he actually wants to be sending to Harry, as it turns out. “I don’t actually want to yell at you every morning, you know.”

It makes Harry’s eyes widen. “Oh.” He ducks his head and Zayn is eighty percent sure it’s because he’s blushing. “I don’t want to either. Yell at you.”

“No more therapy or whatever, okay? Let’s just… Let’s just not.”

“So we could just talk? Like normal neighbors?”

It’s hard not to mimic the grin that spreads over Harry’s face. “I guess,” Zayn says, which is an understatement of the century.

“Well then, neighbor, thank you for dinner.” And then, like he’s been waiting to do it, Harry punches Zayn in the shoulder, all friend-like and friendly and platonic and bro to another bro. That hurts all by itself, but Zayn winces because it jostles him in the chair and makes him twist in the exact way that makes his back shoot up with pain.

“Shit.”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, did I hurt you?”

“You’re not the Hulk, Harry,” Zayn says around a gasp. “It’s just my back, it’s been killing me.”

“Why? What did you do?” Harry has a hand on Zayn’s shoulder and yes, yeah, he’s definitely giving Zayn a one handed shoulder massage.

“Just,” Zayn tries to lean away from the touch, “Lifting boxes all day, it’s fine. It’s not that bad?”

“Isn’t it?”And then that hand slips down along his spine and there are fingers pushing into his muscles and Zayn swears he sees stars. “God, you have knots everywhere.”

Zayn whines. Then again for good measure.

“Okay, wait right here.”

Harry is gone before Zayn can ask what he’s doing and insist that  _ he’s fine _ , just in need of a good stretch, a hot shower and his bed, thank you. The only reason he stays where he is in the end, is because it’s Harry, and Zayn’s beginning to get the feeling he’d probably do anything Harry asked. Except kill his plants. Maybe not that.

Harry comes back and asks, “Do you have a mat?” like Zayn would ever.

“What? No, of course I don’t.”

“Fine, then up you go.”

“What? Harry, what are you doing?”

“Taking you to bed,” Harry says with a serious face. Or maybe he looks more determined, Zayn can’t really tell past his own frown and furiously deep blush. He wants to ask an indignant ‘what?’ again, but then he also really, really doesn’t, even if the circumstances of Harry taking him to bed are about completely opposite to ideal and it feels like Zayn’s being taken for a nap, but. Still. Neither of them are yelling at the moment, so it’s progress.

“That, um, that door,” Zayn has to say out loud because Harry’s stopped walking in the middle of the hallway where four doors are. He points too, his hand shaking at this point, because Zayn can’t remember the state of his bedroom.

When Harry opens the door and finally slips his hands away from Zayn’s back, Zayn sighs out in relief. For one, Harry’s hand is big and Zayn’s waist is small and he’s never thought about one with the other up until now, thankfully, because the image is nothing if not overwhelming. And his bed is almost made. The sheets are falling off the end of the bed and the pillows are either sideways or tucked into the little bit of space between the bed and the wall, but there’s no dirty laundry on the floor or overstuffed ashtrays on nightstands. Zayn even remembered to put away his lube, which is just short of a miracle.

“Come on.”

“What exactly are we doing?”

They’re both standing in the middle of the room, their eyes on the bed. It’s like they’re waiting for someone to jump out. But it’s not someone, it’s something, the next words out of Harry’s mouth that send a thrill down Zayn’s sore spine. 

“I’m giving you a massage.” Harry waves around a little bottle that has the word  _ Oil _ on it in big, bold, gold letters. “Now take off your t-shirt and get on the bed.”

“No. No, no, no, I’m fine, it’s fine.”

“Zayn.”

“It’s  _ fine _ ,” Zayn wants to say firmly, but he gets winded, because he moves his arm wrong in the attempt to stand his ground and show Harry just how well he’s doing it too.

“Clearly,” Harry snorts. Sarcasm is not a good look on him. “Just get on the bed. I did a class in this,” Harry says as he pushes him along to the side of the bed. To make it less embarrassing for the both of them, Zayn takes off his own t-shirt. He never thought this would happen. How is this happening? “I have a certificate, I can show you, if you think I don’t know what I’m doing or something.”

And the thing is, if Harry still had that determined look, it would make putting up a fight much easier than  it is to the worried lip and anxious eyes he has going on. With a deep, relenting sigh, Zayn grunts. “Don’t be ridiculous. I trust that- I mean, I trust you.” Because when it comes down to it, Zayn does.

“Great.” Harry gives him a big grin and a nod towards the bed. “Get on your front.”

It’s not that bad, being able to hide his blush in the crook of his elbow. This is good. Zayn can do this without making it awkward. He can, but only until Harry gets on the bed too and sits down right over Zayn’s ass. Then, Zayn’s pretty sure this is more of that branded Harry Styles Torture.

“Okay. I’m gonna start on your shoulders.” Zayn hears the click of the bottle and then the drip of the massage oil on his skin. It smells spicy, like something warm. It almost feels warm. “And work my way down. Try to take deep breaths if anything hurts too bad or just tell me. Good?”

Zayn grumbles something along the lines of ‘Yeah, good,’ closes his eyes and tries his very best not to get hard.

Which works. When Harry starts on his shoulders, Zayn hums a few times as a way to tell him that it’s still okay for how okay this is to begin with, but the smooth glide of Harry’s fingers and the way he digs them into his skin would make Zayn do more than hum if he’d let himself. But that’s still fine. When there’s the first painful little twitch when Harry goes lower, right along Zayn’s spine, it’s distracting enough that Zayn doesn’t focus on the straddling and the images he has in his head. Which continues to work, because the pain of Harry’s knuckles digging in and then sliding up with the oil is distracting Zayn. The pain is good.

Harry, however, works through every ache and twinge and knotted muscle until Zayn’s a puddle on the sheets and can’t even bite bit lip hard enough to keep a broken moan from twisting its way out of his mouth. And  _ that _ ’s where every single thing stops working completely, but especially the part of Zayn that wasn’t getting hard.

“Relax,” Harry practically purrs, like he’s taken on a persona of the masseuse and is using their voice instead of his own. “Think of your happy place and let yourself breathe-in the fantasy.”

Harry actually says that, but it sounds about a hundred miles away because he slips his firm hands down Zayn’s slippery back until he’s pressing his fingertips right above Zayn’s ass where the elastic of his sweats is, and Zayn very nearly arches his back into it.

Harry wriggles on top of his ass and puts even more weight into his hands, kneading at the dip in Zayn’s back like he has a vendetta against it and drags out a whispery, “Relax,” again. Zayn shuffles with it and gets pressed down into the mattress, his hips, his chest, all of it, like Harry’s trying to make him hump the bed, which is absolutely not what Harry is trying to do, but Zayn’s mind still goes there.

Harry on top of him, Zayn getting steadily harder, the smell of the oil burning into his brain…

“I think,” Zayn swallows around his dry throat, “I think that’s good. Thank you.”

“I should really-”

“No, I’m good,” Zayn tries to wiggle Harry off him but he won’t budge. “Harry…”

The thing is that Zayn can’t move, because Harry pressing him down again. “Listen. Stop moving. Zayn, listen.”

He huffs, but gives up the struggle.

“You said,” Harry starts slowly, even slower than he usually talks, “You said you liked me. And I like you back. Maybe we could, I don’t know, like each other?”

“Um, okay?” Zayn turns his head to the side to look at him, but the angle is wrong and he isn’t about to sit through a neck massage as well.

“If I kiss you, will you let me?”

True to his form, Zayn doesn’t say anything. And for a while, Harry doesn’t either, probably waiting him out. 

When it’s obvious that Zayn’s stopped breathing altogether, Harry asks carefully, “Or should I just go?”

Zayn can feel when Harry starts to lift himself up. “No, wait. I’ll - I’d let you. I’d let you kiss me.”

Thankfully, Harry doesn’t ask ‘are you sure?’ before he starts to lean down and Zayn’s doing his best to turn his head as much as he can, and then just like that, three months after the new guy moved in and Zayn thought he was cute before he even knew he was Harry Styles and a lot more than just cute, they’re kissing and Zayn is shaking with it, he swears.

It’s chaste and quick and Harry smells like the massage oil. When Harry gives him a loud smooch on the cheek right before he straightens up, Zayn debates whether he can live in the moment of having just kissed Harry for the first time forever.

“Now are you going to stay still?”

In zero point two seconds flat, Harry pops Zayn’s buble and makes him blink. “What?”

“I’m not done yet, so I need you to stay still,” Harry says all syrupy again. "

But it’s just that, “Harry…” Zayn is definitely hard and he will definitely be embarrassed and make this unnecessarily awkward, so it’s really in all their best interest if Harry just gets up and leaves.

Except, it’s Harry, so instead, he says, “I know,” which is both confusing and mortifying.

Zayn stutters out a quiet, “What?”

Harry wiggles on top of him again and, well. That’s  _ interesting _ . “We like each other, right?” Splaying his hands over the small of his back, he asks, “Zayn?”

It’s hard to breathe and Zayn’s started to sweat, but he’s no less hard now that he knows Harry’s hard too. “Right.”

“Right. So maybe we could, you know,” and then Harry grinds down into Zayn, “Relax. Together.”

“Relax?”

Harry hums, does something with his hands on Zayn’s back, pushes his hips into the bed and really, the last twenty minutes have been leading to Zayn letting loose a broken moan, and it feels like he’s been waiting all those three months to finally do it. It’s glorious all by itself, but then Zayn’s brain helpfully supplies the reminder of feeling Harry hard against his ass, so Zayn moans again and  _ relaxes _ , breathes-in what’s happening and just about comes in his boxers.

"You know I'm taking about sex, right?" Harry adds in a whisper. "Because consent is important, so I need you to know I mean sex or like, getting each other off, whatever that ends up being."

" _Harry_."

"No, Zayn, you have to say you understand," he insists, still in a whisper, like it's not clearly obvious and they're not half-way to doing it anyways.

Zayn mumbles an approximation of an, "I understand," and musters up enough brain capacity to actually say, “Let me up, Harry, come on,” even if it does sound all breathless and broken. When Harry says no, Zayn wriggles and insists that, “Just let me turn around.”

Huffing out a, “Fine,” all Harry really does is plant his hands next to Zayn’s head and lifts his hips up, which gives Zayn about an inch of space to move in, but it’s enough in the end. Not that Zayn complains, because now that he has him this close, he doesn’t want to have Harry leave. That thought is big and loud in Zayn’s head but he pushes it back and pulls up the hot and insisten  _ fuck _ instead.

“I thought I was giving you a massage?” Harry pouts down at him as he settles himself on Zayn’s crotch. Turning around was the best idea Zayn's ever had.

“What about a happy ending?” With a shallow breath, Zayn brings his hands to Harry’s hips and raises a hopeful and nervous eyebrow. He's trying to pretend the grown-up consent talk didn't happen.

“Oh?” Harry smirks, clearly going along with it. “Which one of us would be the happy one?”

“I was thinking both of us?”

“Definitely both of us,” Harry’s saying as he’s leaning down and kissing Zayn, his words lost between them.

It’s neither chaste nor quick and Harry doesn’t move away this time either. With the way he’s pressing himself all along Zayn, he probably won’t move away for a long time. It’s more than Zayn could ever ask for. The way Harry kisses is slow and deep, all smart tongue and his hand on Zayn’s jaw tipping his head back so he can get a better angle. He kisses like he wants Zayn to be in charge of it, but doesn’t want to stop dictating the pace of it either. Zayn is trembling, but between one second and the next, he gets all his breath back, because he knows how to do this. He’s good at this. 

Zayn might not know how to stop himself from yelling over the fence, and he doesn’t always know how to flirt with pretty boys, doesn’t know what to do when the pretty boy likes him back, but he knows this. Except he knows more the other way around, with his hands braced on the mattress and grinding his hips down like Harry is now - not that this way isn’t melting him into putty just as fast. But he still pulls Harry down and then turns them around, so that Harry is pink cheeked and smiling against his mouth and underneath him, right where Zayn wants him.

“Happy ending?” Harry asks on a breath. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, yes, yes.”

“Get naked then.” He pinches Zayn’s side and grins. “Please.”

“You too.”

It takes them a few tries but they both manage to separate long enough to get naked, and it doesn’t really take longer than the five seconds for them to flail out of their pants, but it feels like they’re a different Harry and Zayn when Zayn settles between Harry’s open legs. 

He’s also holding out the massage oil. “Here, use this.”

“Won’t it like-” burn tomorrow, Zayn wants to say.

“No, it, um, actually, heats up? Just a little, though.” Harry blushes all the way down his chest, and it’s both hot and cute, and it does something funny to Zayn’s insides.

“You like that?”

Harry nods and bites his lip. Zayn takes the bottle and leans down to bite it for him.

It’s marvelous, glorious, stupefying, so hot and only just on the verge of something Zayn can handle without coming all over himself, how Harry pushes his hips onto Zayn’s fingers and pulls on his own hair. His hips are swinging up and down, right in time with Zayn’s hand, not that he needs to even move it, because Harry is ridiculous and his feet are in the air, because he’s flexible and can, apparently, get a perch on thin air. Zayn keeps his fingers hooked upwards and his other hand tight on his own dick, because he’d be really, really pissed off if he didn’t get to fuck Harry before the day is over.

It’s a moment later that he’s slipping on a condom and trembling all over again, hands shaking with nerves and anticipation and just the sheer need to get on with it.

“Like this?” Zayn asks, but it’s not like he’d be physically able to move around on the bed too much. He just needs to come at this point, thank you.

“Yeah,” Harry’s nodding and pulling him in by his hips, spreading his legs further apart - that makes Zayn breath hitch - and closing his eyes around, “Then I’ll move,” as Zayn starts to push inside of him.

Even though he never thought he’d be able to, Zayn buries himself in to the hilt and then breathes through it along with Harry. They kiss lazily and end up smiling at each other for no other reason than not even a week ago, they couldn’t get through a day without yelling at each other and now here they are, Harry nodding his okay and Zayn tentatively drawing his hips back and pushing back in.

Harry’s tight around him and the massage oil  _ is _ heating everything up by just so much that Zayn can feel it and Harry can feel it, and the fact that they can is written all over their faces. Harry lets Zayn build up a rhythm, but only barely, before he’s whimpering out a, “Stop, wait, let me move.”

“What, why?” Zayn very nearly cries when he pulls out.

“Because it’ll be better like this.” Harry gets on his front and pulls one knee up to his chest, the other straight and between Zayn’s. “Just, get on top of me. And, maybe push me down a little.”

“Yeah?” Zayn takes a deep breath and gets himself in hand again. He’s less slow about pressing back in. It’s so good like this though, being able to move his hips as deep and as slow as he wants, kissing down the back of Harry’s neck in between and putting all his weight on the small of Harry’s back. As tight as everything is like this, Zayn can actually breathe and enjoy the build up around his middle and up his spine and in the tips of his toes. He gets to bite Harry’s neck too, whisper all kinds of things he wouldn’t dare to otherwise and listen to how it makes Harry whimper and feel how it makes him clench.

“If you make me come,” Harry moans, “I’ll blow you,” which is why one second, Zayn is wrapping his hand around Harry’s dick and pulling his off while trying to keep his hips moving and mouthing at his neck until Harry is whining and gasping and coming hot over Zayn’s hand - and the next, Zayn’s on his back and Harry is swallowing tightly around him and moaning and Zayn is only human, so  before he can even blink, he’s coming over Harry’s tongue and gasping for air.

Zayn doesn’t register that he’s watching Harry swallow and them wipe his mouth, all with a grin of his face. He watches him get on his hands and knees and crawl up until he’s hovering over Zayn. “You should eat more fruit.”

“Huh?”

“I’m gonna bring you a smoothie every morning.”

“What? Why?” Shaking his head, Zayn stops Harry, “No, don’t answer that. Okay. I’ll drink your fruit things.”

“Smoothies,” Harry kisses his chest. “And pineapple every night for dinner.”

“I work nights.” Zayn frowns and settles his arms around Harry’s neck.

“I’ll bring it to your shop then.”

Excited, nervous and carefully hesitant, Zayn asks a grinning Harry, “So we’ll relax again? Together?”

Harry doesn’t get deterred. “Yeah,” he shrugs. “I was thinking maybe I could make too much to eat next weekend,” he kisses the tip of Zayn’s nose and then chin, “And casually ask you over to help, and then maybe,” he wiggles his eyebrows. 

It all sounds good, perfect really, but. “What if,” Zayn tightens his arms around him and gets his fingers in Harry’s sweaty hair, “You cook, I come over and we call it a date?”

“Yeah?”

Settling him half on top of himself and half on the bed, Zayn nods and kisses Harry, on the lips, because he isn’t ridiculous and as much as he’d like to kiss him on the forehead, he can’t bring himself to. “Yeah. And that night, all talk of your gong and my plants is banned. Deal?”

Harry laughs out, “You have a deal, Malik.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to [Tumblr.](http://www.itsallaboutzarry.tumblr.com)  
> 


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